


The Wolf Among Us

by satterthwaite



Series: A Season in Hunting [1]
Category: Upstairs Downstairs (2011), Wolf Hall (TV), Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Alternate Universe - WWII, Cheating, Desk Sex, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Listen I never know how to tag things, Marry One Sister Get The Second For Free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satterthwaite/pseuds/satterthwaite
Summary: He pictures her quite clearly now, opening a wardrobe or a desk, slipping into their existence like sand, and just like sand in cogs, disrupting the peaceful mechanism of their matrimony.Yes, this is exactly who Anne Boleyn is.





	The Wolf Among Us

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the tv series "Upstairs Downstairs" (the latest version), and also the Wolf Hall fics of [jennytheshipper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jennytheshipper), who is also to be thanked for her excellent beta-ing! I must also thanks my friend Fiona, who is forever my Cromwell and whose writings have grandly inspired me in some of the dialogues.

****The knock on the door comes as they all stand up for the "God Save the King" playing on the wireless, the whole household gathered in the living room. No one moves, petrified in their dignified patriotism for the national anthem. The first knock is followed by another, and another, getting louder and louder each time, until a voice came to accompany the bangs.

"Please, let me in!  It’s freezing outside!"

Thomas doesn’t need to look to feel his wife tensing up at the sound of her sister’s voice. Now that Anne was launched, there was no stopping her.

"Mary? Mary! I know you’re there!"

Mary Boleyn didn’t move as the wireless chanted — victorious, happy and glorious — and as he slightly turned his head, he could only see embarrassment on the servants’ faces. Not that there were many of them: a butler, a cook and a parlour maid, just the bare minimum necessary for appearances of the household of the Prime Minister’s private secretary and advisor. Thomas Cromwell would not need more anyway.

Growing up in the slums of South West London could accustom any man to living in modesty, not out of false humility — simply out of habit. Rising to this station hadn’t changed his way of living; if anything, being surrounded daily by sons of lords and alumnis from Eton who felt entitled to the luxurious lifestyles they displayed in lavish receptions, only made him yearn for simplicity even more. Those men had made it clear they did not belong in the same world, there was no use pretending.

"Please, anyone! I can see the lights inside!"

He thinks of the woman outside, locked out by an act of patriotism, who still hasn’t managed to make anyone move; on the contrary, Mary has reached forward to put the volume higher, and cover the sound of her sister’s voice.

"Please! Don’t leave me outside!"

He doesn’t know if he moves out of pity or annoyance, but he squeezes his wife’s shoulder before exiting the living room to go and open the front door himself.

"Thomas! Thank God!"

She hasn’t changed since the last time he saw her, in his office at Whitehall, when she and Henry signed their divorce papers.

The perfect oval of her face is framed with raven curls --made darker in the evening light-- cut in a bob and styled in the latest fashion. He can see the shadows of faded lipstick on her lips, a pale scarlet which, parting into a smile, reveal her small, white teeth.

"I thought you were going to leave me outside."

She shoves her small suitcase into his arms as she steps in, and Mary appears in the hallway to welcome her. Thomas notes that Mary is doing her best to hide her stiffness, but when Anne walks up to her and pulls her in for a hug, it takes her a few seconds to raise her arms and put them around her sister’s shoulders.

"Anne, we thought you’d arrive later. I had arranged for a taxi to pick you up at the station."

"Well, I took an earlier train, " the dark haired woman smiled, before turning towards him again. “Oh bother! I’m low on cash. Do you mind, Thomas?” she said gesturing towards the cab idling outside the door.

For a moment there is shared exasperation between he and Mary, a passing look which floats in the hallway but which Anne does not seem to catch (or at least, pretends no to) before Thomas speaks.

"I’ll go and pay him," he says.

By the time he is inside the house again, Anne has disappeared and there’s only Mary, sitting on a chair and smoking a cigarette. Her hands are slightly shaking, he goes to take her free one into his, squeezes gently. They stand there, in silence for a few minutes, her smoke curling up into the room while he stands at her side.  He’s not one for small talk for the sake of filling the silence. He quite enjoys the peace of having someone beside him and not having to talk in order to be comfortable. And Mary is the talker, usually. He knows the words will flow once she is ready.

"I thought we’d have at least two more hours of peace."

There it goes. The silence is broken, the cigarette crushed in an ashtray whose decorative purpose finally got a promotion (Mary only smokes when her sister is around, and God knows how much she tries to avoid such occasions). He readies himself for a reapeat of the conversation they had weeks ago, when the idea was first put forward.

"People should not be allowed to take earlier trains just because it suits them, when they are entirely dependent on other people. Suppose we had been out!"

"Then I’m sure someone would have let her in." His other hand, the one which isn’t in her hand, rests on her shoulder, reassuring.

"Then I’m sure she would have visited the whole house, without us, putting her nose in our things." There is a small grimace, wrinkling her brow and twisting her mouth. Thomas sighs, squeezes again.

"She’s not like that."

Mary turns her head towards him, eyebrows arched. She chuckles.

"You know perfectly well that Anne is exactly like that."

And it’s true: he can see her plucking their life apart, memory by memory, digging through clothes, photographs, jewels, perfumes, every sense used to try and get a grasp of their married life, now that she finds herself without one, and without the occupation of one. He pictures her quite clearly now, opening a wardrobe or a desk, slipping into their existence like sand, and just like sand in cogs, disrupting the peaceful mechanism of their matrimony.

Yes, this is exactly who Anne Boleyn is.

"It’s only for a few weeks, my dear."

Mary scoffs and gets to her feet, dusting off her dress.

"Yes, because you agreed to it. Out of guilt." He is experiencing a very strong feeling of déjà-vu right now.

They have argued about it already, Mary saying ‘I don’t want my sister under the same roof with us’ and Thomas saying ‘the poor woman has nothing left, and I’m partly responsible for it. She’s your sister…’ And he does feel the guilt, because perhaps he should have tried harder to convince Henry to leave her some money; perhaps he should have told her sooner about little Jane Seymour; perhaps he should have set aside ‘conflict of interest’ and tell her to put some money in the bank, under her own name.

But he had been Henry’s advisor and lawyer till the very end, and when he had seen her signed the final settlement, he knew he had just rendered her homeless and penniless. As naked as one could figuratively be.

She had gone back to Kent to live with her parents for a while, but according to her brother George, who still worked at Whitehall and whom he still encountered from time to time, neither party was satisfied with such arrangement. Religious as they were, the Boleyns hated the idea of housing a divorcee who had abandoned the marital home, and Anne couldn’t bear to be reminded of her new status as the family disappointment.

That was something she would not get rid of here.

It was golden opportunity for Mary to revel in the reversal of the roles. Before Anne’s divorce, she had always been regarded as the prodigal daughter, the one who had had affairs and whose marriage wasn’t as satisfactory as it could have been, according to the ambition-meter of her father: if Anne could get the Prime Minister, surely she should have married a minister as well? Alas, he was only the private secretary. The right hand man, but only from the shadows. Thomas Cromwell would never have his share of the spotlight. Mary would never appear as a glamourous trophy wife at galas with foreign ambassadors and presidents.

And that was her failure.

How small it looked now, compared to Anne’s! Anne, who could now fill Mary’s shoes. Anne who could not hold on to her marriage. Anne, who suddenly found herself in disfavour, after years of being the favourite, the little queen.

Oh no, Mary was not going to let one single occasion slip pastto remind her little sister of that.

Even so, such prospects seemed to have little effect on his wife, compared to the enormous burden of having to house her sibling for a few weeks, so that she could have time to find somewhere cheap to rent in London, and a job.

Thomas knows George is sending Anne money, but it is far from being enough to sustain a living in the British capital, let alone her past lifestyle. No, that was something she had given up for good when she had left Henry, and she knew that.

At least he hopes so, because he definitely cannot entertain her like her husband did.

"I just wish George would have taken her, instead of us." She is still sulking, but she is softening now, slipping her arm around him and letting her head rest on his shoulder. Absentmindedly he kisses her temple.

"You know he said it was impossible."

"Nothing is impossible when you want it enough. He mustn’t love her so much then."

He wants to say, George Boleyn is a man who lives for his own convenience, who wants to avoid a civil war under his roof. Ever since Anne had very publicly hinted at the cuckold’s horns Jane Boleyn was wearing (and by publicly, he means in front of a whole panel of journalists from national newspapers), keeping the two women out of the same room had proved to be a ardous, but necessary task for the keeping of the peace and decency. To have Anne and Jane in the same house was simply out of the question.

Relations between the two sisters might have proved tricky in the past, but were nowhere near as bad as this state of cold ward. Their home had thus become the default landing spot for Anne, who was only eager to leave Kent as soon as possible.

"Should we go to bed?" he suggests, and she nods, yawning as she leans slightly into him, and they climb the stairs together.

* * *

 She cannot sleep, and since she can’t sleep, she is thinking — reflecting, really.

About how quickly her life had unravelled these past few months. The divorce procedure had been long and tiring, and of course Henry had managed to make her look like the guilty party. She was, in the eyes of the law: that is what you call the spouse who leaves their home.

Of course it had been a foolish, impulsive gesture, and perhaps with a little more time, and more wit she could have avoided a total fiasco, proved his adultery and walked out of that office with some money, and pride — but no.

Finding the coat of that pasty-faced secretary hanging on their bedroom door had been enough to drive her into a rage, pack her bags and walk away from their marriage.

Of course, now that she looks at it, it had been Henry’s plan all along. He didn’t devise it on his own, she is sure of that, but he certainly was the main brain behind it. He knew his wife’s temper, probably knew how tired she was of his affairs. He had to find something to still make himself appear as the victim and to subtly drive her out of the house had been the perfect plan.

It didn’t help her case that the first person she went to in her rage was Henry’s closest friend, Henry Norris. It gave his lawyers the perfect opportunity to frame her as an adulteress.

And now they had stripped her of everything but her name, and of the tiniest hint of pride she needs to keep going, and not throw herself into the Thames, and the belief that in the end, somebody would care for her.

She thinks Thomas cares.

He met the sisters when he first arrived at Whitehall, fresh from the office of the sacked Foreign Affairs minister, Wolsey, hired to deal with the press, threatening to reveal the Prime Minister's affair with one of his secretaries.

She remembers meeting him for the first time, in Henry's private apartments at 10, Downing Street. How indifferent and unaffected he had seemed by the whole situation. If anything, she had had the gift to polarise opinions; or rather, gather only the bad opinions of most people. After all, she was on the verge of breaking a marriage of 20 years, and the First Lady of Great Britain was a loved one, in spite of her Spanish origins, and who was she? Nothing but a little typing hand who had snuck into the Prime Minister's office thanks to her sister.

That was only the lesser known part of the story:

How she was not the first Boleyn girl in Henry's bed.

She had been, in any case, the longer lasting one.

And so Thomas warded off the tabloids, helped finalise the divorce between Henry and Catherine, all the while while courting Mary, and eventually marrying her.

Anne had witnessed it all — almost overseen the whole case. She had introduced them to each other, watched the courtship from afar, amused by how different he was from all the other men Mary had shared her bed with — and yet, when he had proposed, she had said yes, to everyone's surprise.

There was a part of Anne who wondered, and a part who understood the appeal.

The Cromwell wedding was soon followed by the Tudor one, a few months later, and their lives had been forever intertwined, their small world closing around them, even when two people out of four disliked each other.

Being his right hand, Cromwell was always with Henry.

Being his wife, Anne was always where Henry was, and Cromwell's company was a common place for him to be found.

Until Henry could be pulled from the equation and their sides without the situation being awkward. Until Anne and Cromwell could spend time together, discussing their enemies within the walls of Whitehall and parliament and beyond, and both had many.

Two nobodies, risen from the dust to reach the highest seats of power.

She remembers his coldness when they had first met.

She remembers how, one evening at Downing Street, he had put Henry to bed, then spent hours discussing with her, instead of going home to his own bed.

She remembers how, at dinner once, she had put her hand hand over his, and they had laughed together at other people.

She thinks Thomas cares more for her than he lets on.

She thinks Thomas could even love her.

She thinks, but not in the way a man loves his sister-in-law.

* * *

**Christmas 1938 — four months before the divorce**

She's nursing her third or fourth glass of champagne of the evening, sitting alone in the smoking room. From another room, the party is still going on, with its laughters and clinking glasses and faded music. She dips her fingers into the golden, sparkly liquid, and rubs it along the crystal edge, drawing the high note from her fingertips. Covering the sounds she does not want to hear.

He's just a passing shadow, but she could recognise him anywhere now.

"Thomas!"

She can hear the footsteps coming to a stop, and she goes to the open door, looking down the carpeted hallway where he stands, his back turned to her.

He doesn't want to stay, she can read it in his shoulders. He has probably just come by to drop some documents for Henry, the sorts that cannot wait, even at Christmas, and now he wants to get back to his own home, his own little family and quietness — probably some brandy around the fire. That's what men do on these occasions when they are not particularly inclined towards receptions and parties, and she knows Thomas is not.

Mary was, a long time ago, but she has changed so much ever since adopting his name.

Or perhaps, she was always that quiet little wife, and the rest was pretending. She doubts she'll ever know the truth now. Not that she really cares.

(Sometimes, like today, she misses her sister. But those times are quietly swept under the rug and ignored, because there's been bad blood and this enmity can't be mended.)

"Won't you stay with us a little longer?"

She wants to say, 'with me', but the proper thing to do is to invite him to the whole thing, the whole party, and that's still officially being hosted by she and Henry. A few glasses of champagne won't prevent her from doing the proper thing, from being a proper hostess. She leans against the doorway, waits for him to turn around and deny her.

"Mary is expecting me at home."

"Of course she is..." She looks down at her glass, her wet finger still fidgeting with the edge. "Just for a few minutes?" She raises her eyes, wide and black and doe-like. He's facing her now, and he sighs, very quietly, like he always does when he is about to say yes where he should say no. She knows; he's done it with Henry often enough.

He steps towards her and she takes his hand, pulling him into the room. The music coming to them through the walls and randomly opened doors, gives an eerie atmosphere to the scene, as if they're listening from very far away.

They're alone, and suddenly she recognises the notes, like a familiar face in a crowd. She bites her lips.

"'The Very Thought of You'," she says, as she leans against the pool table in the middle of the room, and her glass rests on the green mat. She catches his frown, smiles a little. "That's our song. It was playing when Henry first kissed me, at the office Christmas party."

She remembers the old record, and the mistletoe. How his arm had snaked around her tiny waist, pulling her closer to him. She had giggled, amused, because all the girls had had their turn of waltz with him already, and everyone was giddy and joyful. It had all been in good humour, a bit of fun to lift the spirits, and it was tradition.

"Dance with me." Anne extends her hand towards him, the same doe-eyed look. "Just the one, then you can go." She argues before he can refuse, before he can back away. There's one more sigh, before he slips his hand into hers, and pulls her gently towards him.

She's wearing a long, emerald gown with a low cut in the back, and she feels his hand between her shoulder blades at first, afraid to touch further down — afraid of what he might find. Her cheek just reaches his shoulder (barely, Mary was always the taller one), and she tilts her chin up to look at him, eyes half-closed, gazing through eyelashes. They slowly start swaying in rhythm with the quiet, jazz notes coming to them.

"I really love him, you know," she says, and she lets her cheek rests against his chest, trying to catch a heartbeat underneath all those layers of clothes. "When he first tried to kiss me, it was under the mistletoe, and you know what I did? I turned my head at the very last moment, and he could only kiss my cheek." The memory makes her smile. She closes her eyes (can he feel it? can he see it?) as she is reminded of something Mary had told her, an eternity ago: 'Henry likes a good fight, someone to raise him a challenge.' She sure had been one, at the beginning, slipping through his fingers like sand or smoke.

"He's brought her in tonight," she says, and her tone is suddenly much colder, much sharper, much more sober. "That little milk maid from Wiltshire."

She's a secretary, too — will he try to kiss her under the mistletoe? Will she turn her head and present her cheek instead?

"I don't think he cares for me anymore, Thomas."

The sentence hangs in the air between them; his grip on her back wrinkles her skin, his hand slips lower. She doesn't know why he chose this moment. Their feet move closer together, she breathes against him in time with the rising and falling of his chest. She raises her head, and her hair brushes the side of his neck, curls lingering against his pulse. The hand which is in hers tightens, ever so slightly. She presses on.

"'The longing here for you, you'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you...'," she sings, bemused, in a low voice, husky. "He used to sing it to me all time. Do you do that with Mary?"

"We do not have a song."

"Don't you? Not even the song from your wedding?"

"I don't remember what it was." She's not sure whether it's a lie, or if he's toeing around the subject.

"Do you know what Mary's favourite song was when we were children?" she giggles, amused. "It was a French music-hall song, called 'Je Cherche un Millionaire', I'm looking for a millionaire. And she used to sing it all the time, putting on show and swearing she would get her millionaire, too..." Her cheek is back at its place, searching for a quickening pulse. She needs not say more: she knows she has planted the seeds already.

The lyrics have stopped now, and only the music remains, getting louder as it reaches its climax. She tilts her head and breathes against his neck, warm and steady. His hand on her back had gotten lower, she's only realised now: it's hovering over her lower back, where her skin is covered by the satin cloth of her gown.

The music stops, but they do not step away from each other at once. They stand in the silence between one record and another, their breathing going up and down in sync, neither of them wanting to move. The moment seems floating, stretched into time and space in the tiny cracks of the records players, of the conversations and laughs, which are forgotten and buried in another room, in another house, in another world. In that moment, she senses a feeling of infinite possibility, as if the tiniest of movements could lead to an unstoppable chain of events. If she raises her head to look him in the eyes, if she brushes her fingers against the back of his neck, if she leans forward...

The joyful notes of a new record prick them like a needle, they step away from one another. Hr lower back now meets the cold mahogany of the pool table, he is back in the doorway, almost gone. She smiles — more timid, less brutal than minutes before.

"Thank you, for not leaving me alone."

He doesn't reply; the wolf has jumped at his neck, and he's patiently waiting to know if he'll be released, or eaten.

Maybe he doesn't entirely dislike being put in quiet submission to her.

That's what she likes to think.

She moves forward. There's a certain cold precision, a razor-like sharpness in the way she kisses him right at the corner of his mouth, calculating the stain of red lipstick she leaves behind, and the smile she displays right after. The rouge is slightly smudged on her lips, and it makes it look like blood.

"Goodnight, Thomas."

The wolf has opened its jaw, and let him go.

He's out of the door in a second, she's alone once more, drowning against the sounds of the ghost party going on without her at the other end of the house. In a swift motion, Anne pours the content of her glass all over the green pool mat (it's going to cost Henry a little fortune to replace it), and setting the glass down once more, she makes her way towards the reception. She won't be struck down and set aside without a good fight.

* * *

 Those memories of looks, touches, shared glances and kisses — they belong to a time where she was married to the closest man of his entourage. Their common place. Their anchor to each other.

She doesn't know how much of a part he played in the divorce. She doesn't know on which footing they stand now. Though she imagines it's thanks to him that she has a roof over her head — his insistence, not Mary's.

But is there anything left of those few minutes stolen, last Christmas? Is anything there to be reaped, after the seeds she planted?

She can't sleep, and she does not want to think anymore. She gets out of bed for the sheer motion of doing something, instead of lying in idleness and hoping for sleep (which won't come as long as she keeps thinking, and her thoughts won't fade away as long as she is not asleep).

She likes to think there is no meanness in her actions: she does them out of boredom, out of self-pity, out of want for attention. She does not want to hurt Mary: it just happens that Thomas has always been there, like a token -- proof that he always cared for her, her opinions valued, her position respected, and on occasions, he has even defended her. From the moment her marriage had started to unravel, she had clung to him like a rock, while she was battered by the storm unleashed upon her by Henry's lawyers.

He didn't do anything, never showed any emotion or even empathy towards her, except being there, in his comfortable silence, in his quiet attitude.

She likes to think he wanted her to be here, because somehow, he knows he can rely on her, too.

* * *

He hears the footsteps before he can see who they belong to. He's at his desk because, since he couldn't sleep, he'd figure the clever thing to do would be to put himself to work, tire himself out while dealing with important files Henry has requested for next week.

Does he think of her? He, Henry, does he wonder where she might be? Does he think about what he has done, leaving her without money and without a place to stay? He doubts it. The last time he saw him, he was only talking of his upcoming marriage to Jane Seymour, and how happy he would finally be, now that the scandal of Anne had finally been washed off of his reputation.

It was true he had not made the same mistake of parading the Seymour girl until the divorce was completely finalised this time, unlike all those dinner receptions and galas he had attended with Anne while still officially married to Catherine. He remembers vividly amember of Parliament coming to him once, murmuring over his champagne. "This isn't France. We do not like our English wives being cheated on." He, Thomas, had wanted to remark that between Catherine and Anne, only one of them was British, and it was not the legal wife — but he suspected this wasn't the sentiment that the MP had in mind.

Henry had undeniably damaged his reputation as a man of state, and he had been determined not to make the same mistake for his upcoming marriage, though it had all started with the divorce procedure.

Catherine had been extremely fussy and complicated, delaying matters for as long as she could (she was not, after all, the guilty party). She seemed to forget to sign papers or to hand them back to her lawyers, or to have to misplaced them, needing another week to find them. All of this had upset Henry greatly, whose mind had only been focused on Anne during those times. He had not wanted to relive the anguish brought on by a long and tedious procedure.

Hence the suggestion Thomas had put in his ear one day as Henry was at his wits' end. Who better than the two of them knew Anne? They were the only two persons with whom she had spent almost exclusively all of her time ever since her marriage. There were no secrets between the three of them that were kept entirely on their own. Anne came to him talking about Henry, and Henry came to him talking about Anne, and sometimes it was the other way round where he, Thomas, would go and talk to either about the other.

It was a perfect triangle. _Un ménage à trois._

Except, of course, he was married to Mary, and harboured no feeling for either party outside of the loyalty he owed Henry, and the kinship he shared with Anne.

"I didn't know you worked so late."

Though he has heard her, and braced himself for her presence, she still manages to startle him, as the light of whatever lamp she has turned on comes pouring from behind her, cutting her shape with blurred edges. All he can see is the silk dressing gown she is wearing, and the smile on her lips.

He is reminded of last Christmas, of her figure leaning against the doorway, pulling him into her room, into her arms, and how unwilling he had been to protest, to resist. He is reminded of the dance, and the kiss in spite of his willingness to forget, to erase.

In vain he has hoped that it was Mary up, looking for him at this hour — but his wife is a heavy sleeper, not easily disturbed once in the grip of slumber. He remembers once someone trying to break into their house, and how she had slept through the whole ordeal as he dealt with the police.

"Well, it seems neither of us could sleep, but I have an excuse, this is my house. I'm allowed to be up and working at all times."

She only smiles and walks into the room, looking around. Probably to try and decipher him, he reckons. Trying to get a sense out of him, with her piercing dark orbs which he has seen drilled into the back of some people, and he knows she is trying to dig holes into his skull to watch his brain, to see its cogs and mechanisms at work. To see if her magic is working.

He has never given way to her searching — except for that last Christmas, and he wonders if she noticed it (she was in a state of tipsiness, of loneliness and she had acted more boldly than usual, more carelessly, and he thinks perhaps she was not all that observant), but of course Anne is always alert, like a hunter lying in the grass waiting for the prey to forget she’s there.

"I know Mary doesn't really want me here..." She sets herself at the edge of his desk, slightly leaning forward as she rests on her hands on the polished wood surface. "But I hope you don't mind my presence so much." She bats her eyelashes, and they cast long shadows over her eyelids in the light of his desk lamp.

"Your sister only needs time to adjust to your presence, but you are not unwelcome here." He crosses his hand in front of him, leans back slightly in his chair.

He sees her scoffing, and he imagines she would want to say something along the line of 'My sister will never adjust to my presence' and other declarations of her martyrdom as the younger sister. He's heard it often enough while she was married and he was spending his time away from his home, for the benefits of her husband, how she thought Mary hated her and how she didn't understand what she had done to earn that distrust. She complained every time the couple was invited to one of their parties and only Thomas turned up, for the briefest of time. Every occasion could turn into an occasion for complaint, with Anne.

"I can't sleep. I'm too busy thinking." He knows full well what she's thinking about. He wonders if she's figured out that it was him who entrapped her, and left her with virtually nothing. Perhaps she has come here with for revenge. Perhaps she will not let him get away with it so easily.

"Do you think there will be a war?" The question, sudden and direct, surprises him. She looks at her, and finds she has climbed onto his desk now, legs dangling and not touching the floor, and the motion has hiked up the dressing gown, making it slide on either side of her thighs, revealing the freckled flesh.

For a short moment his eyes are caught up in the sight, and he thinks he has never noticed how freckled she actually is, how the little dots fade towards the inside of her thighs. He thinks she's probably naked underneath.

He doesn't know how it makes him feel.

"It seems inevitable by now." He manages to take his eyes off her legs, and looks back to her face once more. She is smiling, no doubt having caught his trailing glance upon her body, and he knows there was nothing accidental in her gestures. As always, everything is carefully calculated. She turns her head away from him, facing towards the feeble light outside his office.

"I do hope Henry will be well advised, when it comes to it." Now her sweetness surprises him. He only remembers how bitterly she spoke of Henry, the day she signed the  paperwork for the divorce and how, later, brother George would tell him she only had the harshest words to speak of her ex-husband, and that no adjective was insulting enough for her when it came to Henry.

Yet now here she is with sweet and sour affection; Henry is far from being forgiven, but the most bitter part of her resentment has disappeared.

"I still care for him, despite everything..." she chuckles, shaking her head. He watches as her curls, slightly disarranged and flattened by the time she has spent in bed, sways around her face. "It's silly, isn't it? He will remarry the Seymour girl soon, and then she'll care for him. He doesn't care about what I think or feel at all."

"I think he does care for you still, somehow."

She slowly turns her head towards him. "What makes a good liar is his ability to never aim too far from the truth. You're not being very good now, Thomas." She's facing away from him again, but now unhappiness has settled on her face: he sees her biting her lips slightly, sucking into her mouth. He thinks he can see a little patch of red on her cheek and the side of her neck, the one exposed to his watchful glance. "Of all his mistresses, she's the one I understand the least. She used to cry when I spoke to her on the telephone!"

"She's a bright light," he says. Why is he defending little Jane Seymour? He's only encountered her a few times, and always to serve her own purposes: changing her working hours, transferring her to an office closer to that of Henry's, and finally making her Henry's, personal secretary. Maybe it was only because he understood the appeal the woman had on his friend: meek and humble, she was the exact opposite of Anne, a calming presence who however possessed the sharpness required to keep the Prime Minister entertained. "That is a difficult thing to find." Something that, in its own way, was still pure. Something akin to joy itself.

She's jumped off his desk now, turning in indignation, her fists closed on her hips. The dressing gown has moved again, parting slightly over her chest and revealing, again, the extent of her freckled skin, the tiny dots sprawling across her sternum, etching  the outlines of her ribs. 'Bag of Bones', his uncle calls her when she is not around — Thomas Howard is not exactly the most sympathetic Home Affairs minister they have known at Whitehall.

"Don't defend her!" she exclaims. "I'm your sister, not she!" She plants both her elbows firmly on the desk, and she rests her chin in the palms of her hands. Pouting, like a six-year-old child (how easily he can picture her as a little girl, going around the house and commanding everyone, and everyone being happily commanded). "Besides, there are dozens of other girls like her, at Whitehall. They're all the same: looking the same, wanting the same thing — a rich husband, so they can never have to work another day in their life."

Sometimes, he wonders if Anne can hear the irony in her own words, or if she really is oblivious of her own flaws.

She doesn't give him time to expand his thoughts on the matter. "Besides, am I not a bright light myself?" The doe-eyed creature is back in front of him, less bitter and more coaxing. He thinks he prefers the bitter one; he feels that one is less dangerous.

"More like a firecracker." He allows himself a smile, which he finds mirrored on Anne's face, as she straightens herself once more, good humour and all.

"It's true. I can go off at any time,” she says. He thinks he sees some kind of spark going off in her eyes, and he doesn't dare let his mind wander to find out what it may be. It dies off before the temptation becomes bigger. He swiftly changes the subject.

"Have you had any luck finding a flat?"

He finds her jumping once more on his desk, this time more careful about the slipperiness of her garment as she carefully re-ties it around her waist, more tightly, more covering. "I don't see the point of looking when I don't have any money." Sore point touched, it seemed.

"You really don't have anything on the side?" She shakes her head.

"Only what George has given me. I'll have to sell all my furs and jewels. The only things his lawyers could not snatch away from me." He hears the vexation in her voice.

"I could buy them off you, if you'd like." He thinks Mary would enjoy a new coat, even more so knowing it was Anne's. He doesn't doubt that the dark-haired sister has caught on to that notion as well; yet, being in a position as delicate as hers, she can hardly decline the offer.

A silence settles between them, during which he can hear the faint sound of the rustling wind outside. Suddenly, the sky clears up, and a beam of moonlight comes through the window, falling in a patch on the hardwood floor. Anne moves slowly, sliding off the desk with silky whispers, to stand in front of the window. This time, it's the raw light of the moon which cuts her figure. Without her realising, one shoulder of her gown has slipped, revealing the bony flesh it hid seconds ago, with all the little, gingerish dots, inviting the viewer the trace patterns upon them. He looks at her, and finds he cannot take his eyes away, this time (maybe because she has stopped talking, has stopped distracting his mind from the curves and planes of her body).

One ought to be careful: Actaeon was changed into a deer when he looked at Diana naked, and hunting season is very much open.

And like his mythological counterpart, he cannot look away now. For all those years of being at her side, with Henry, watching them thread around one another, falling apart and falling together, never really far from each other, inviting him inside their very own circle, and yet never quite letting him in entirely. One way or another, he is an outsider within this relationship — and that's why he chose Mary, because only she understood what being a reject meant, she who had always dealt with the closeness of her two siblings, never out but never in either. And of course, Mary understood Anne, knew her secret tricks and how best to elude them.

How he wished she had imparted more of this knowledge to him.

He is standing behind her, and his hand reaches for her shoulder, careful. He finds his thumb slowly rubbing, tracing mindless patterns over the freckles. She doesn't move, and he can hear the steadiness of her breathing still; his own is getting quicker, his heart starting to feel entrapped by his ribcage. He moves his hand, tracing over the small hill of her collarbone, salient underneath her skin, leaving a hollowed scoop beneath her neck where his thumb now rests. His hand is slowly advancing, calloused fingertips of a working-class boy who has died long ago, he steps closer to her. She is small, he easily towers over her and he watches his own movement as if they were someone else's, as if his hand and arm were now acting on their own.

His left hand goes around, sliding its way towards her hip, finding the bone under the silk, and settles there, against the prominent and angular shape of her iliac crest. She hasn't moved, hasn't spoken a word, but now he feels her blood beating more harshly against his palms, her heart going faster, and the hand against her chest feels the regular movement of her lungs more quickly, though almost imperceptible.

His right hand keeps moving, it has crosses the length of her chest and is pushing off the other shoulder of her gown, until it slides down her arm and the whole upper part of the garment slips past, only remaining attached at the waist. In the moonlight where she is bathed, her skin adopts a new glow, which only serves to enthral and entice him further into the exploration of her body.

Is this how Henry felt, when he first had her? The similar feeling of having been put under a spell, and the quiet submission onto which he finds himself, entirely subjugated into worship — her worship?

Her breasts are revealed to him, to be as dotted as the rest of her skin. As his right hand moves upon them, cupping one fully in his palm (they used to joke about them, he and Mary, joke about how she had been called the 'flat-chested sister', and he isn't laughing anymore, when he realises how perfectly it fits into his hand), he feels her reclining against him, like the hot wax of a burning candle, moulding herself on him. She arches her neck in the same fashion as the supple marble of Bernini, and the back of her head finds the crook his neck in the same tempo as his lips finds her now-offered throat.

In the silence, they are playing a moonlight serenade, immobile, their bodies moving in the same, harmonic rhythm.

His left hand pulls at the chords that still hold her dressing gown in place as he kisses away at her throat. He is a man with a hunger, a deeper need which is yet to be satiated. His fingers fumbles with the silk ties, pulling and pulling until they come apart and the silky material goes pooling at her feet. She is naked in his arms, her whole body illuminated in the moonlight which pours through the window, and in that moment he realises he has always yearned for it: yearned to know how Henry felt like when he held her in his arms, yearned to know how it felt to be at the centre of her attentions, to sit on the throne of her love and let her rule over him.

This is exactly what she is doing.

She's the one naked, vulnerable, at his mercy — yet she never yielded her power, not for one moment.

He holds her tighter against him, pressed to his own body, and his hand on her breast gets firmer, squeezing, eliciting a moan out of her parted lips, and her own hand, which had not moved yet, goes over his, pressing further, lustier. The fingertips of his left hand trace the outline of her hipbone, his touch ghosting over her skin. He slides towards her navel, feels the goosebumps and the slight shudder it brings out of her when he traces over the sensitive skin. His mouth travels to her shoulder, the bony quality of her flesh there, his teeth grazing the spot where the collarbone finishes its course.

He pauses, as his hand rests just above her pubic mound. As his focus is taken off her body for a few seconds, he can hear their ragged breathing in the silence, and he realises she has put her other hand on his thigh, holding herself up, and she's waiting — he feels her expectation, wants to see if he will go through with it, and he does. His fingers go down, inche by inche, until he can feel her wetness, wanton and lustful, under his hand, and he cups the warmth in his palm, relishing in the feeling of having her.

She spins into his arms, suddenly facing him, his hands resting on her lower back, and she looks up at him. He thinks, if she says something now, the spell will be broken. If she speaks, he will be brought back into reality: that he is betraying Mary in the worst way possible, and that it would hurt her beyond imagination. If she speaks, he will back away as if burned, he will leave like last Christmas and never return.

So she doesn't speak.

She slips her arm around his neck and pulls him into a kiss, and there is no hesitation, no pausing. Her left hand tugs at the lapel of his pyjama shirt, pulling him closer. His fingers dig into the flesh of her buttocks, and violence sparks from their embrace, out of passion, out of frustration. He is walking backward, dragging her along with him until he feels the hard edge of his desk. Slipping his hands under the back of her thighs, he sweeps her up, the kiss unbroken as she holds onto his neck, and he turns them around, sitting her almost on the same spot she was occupying what seems like an eternity ago. With one swipe of his right arm, he clears the desk of anything laying there, and in the rumble that follows as ink pots and papers fall on the ground, he thinks Mary will wake up. He thinks they will be found like this, the act unconsumated but very much committed already.

But of course she won't wake up: because she's a heavy sleeper, and Anne knows it, too. She hasn't batted an eyelid at the clatter, hasn't pulled away from him one second, and now she is lying down, pulling him with her, and he rests his forearms on either side of her head, trying not to lose his balance. His mouth migrates towards her throat, her chest, the soft flesh of her breasts, finding along the way the hard nub of an erect nipple, and he is pressed further against her bosom by the hand he feels at the back of his head, by the moans he draws out of her.

Once back over her mouth, he finds she has pulled down his pants, and her legs have parted to welcome him. He only needs one motion to slip into her, and she only needs one motion to wrap her thighs around his waist, holding him in place as her hands come to rest on his shoulders. She commands him and he listens, plunging into her hips, and under him she is smiling, she is always smiling, until her lips form a perfect O and she whimpers, but does not speak. If she speaks, she will break the spell: they both know it.

Fire builds in his loins, and her back is arching, her hips meeting his in steady motions, growing quicker and quicker, until he feels her walls clenching around his cock, and she pulls him down against her chest as she comes, a small cry, and his head is cradled in the crook of her neck, and he bites the soft spot where he can feel the beat of her pulse when he meets his own release.

They remain immobile, panting, her hand gently stroking the back of his head as it's laid against her chest. He doesn't know whether minutes or hours pass before she moves under him, pushing ever so slightly against his shoulders, and she raises herself on her elbows, watching him as he steps back from her, arranges his night clothes. Her legs are dangling over the edge of his desk and, extending one, she gently touches him with her foot, tracing a line from his chest to his crotch, before she presses on, teasing, and he is aching. He avoids looking at her, because he is on a fine line between kissing her and strangling her, and he has no idea on which side the scale might lean.

In one swift motion, she has jumped off the desk, and she's coming for him.

"Goodnight, Thomas." The kiss finds the exact same spot where it had been left off last Christmas. The same sharpness, the same cold precision.

This time, she's the one to disappear out of the room in a second, and he is the one left alone with his own demons.

* * *

 "You look a bit ill this morning. You didn't sleep well?"

It's only he and Mary in the breakfast room this morning, and she's frowning over the cup of tea whose rise has been stopped mid-way to her lips. Had she heard anything last night?

He thinks, if she had, she would not step around the confrontation, she would not try to sugar-coat anything, use euphemisms and avoid the tricky words. She is not Anne.

"No, I couldn't sleep, so I worked in my office for a bit." He was careful to put everything back into place before going to sleep.

She nods, carefully sips her tea. He remembers how long he stood at the foot of the bed, not being able to slip under the duvet and next to her. He had stood and watched her sleep, peacefully, her chest falling and rising in a smooth rhythm. Oblivious to what had just happened in her own house.

He was reminded of the robbery, and how, after having dealt with the police, he had come back to the bedroom, stood on the exact same spot, and blessed her blissful ignorance of the events.

Last night, he had not been certain anymore of whether it was a blessing or not.

Eventually he had returned to his place, but instead of the usual arm he would put around her waist, he had turned his back to her, needing some other long minutes, ticking away on his bedside clock, before he allowed himself to finally sleep.

"Good morning, everyone!" Anne barges into the breakfast room. The dressing gown from last night has been replaced by white silk pyjamas, hugging and floating around her figure in turns as she moves across the room and plants a kiss on Mary's temple, who seems surprised by such a gesture.

He has known for quite some time now that Anne does not possess any limit whatsoever in matters of decency. He clenches his fist around the edge of the newspapers he is reading.

"Slept well, Anne?" Mary inquires with an arched eyebrow as her younger sister goes to sit next to her, and actively starts buttering her toast.

"Very well, thank you! It's much nicer to be under a roof without Papa and Mama around..." she smiles at her sister, her teeth sinking into the piece of bread in her hand.

"Thomas didn't sleep well, apparently," Mary comments as she puts herself to the task of cutting up her own breakfast.

He feels Anne's teeth into him, Mary's knife cutting him up. The two sisters working in unison to his own dismay.

"Didn't you, Thomas?" Anne's eyes are wide open. Passing through her dark pupils which feigns surprise, the same flicker, the same spark he detected briefly last night. "That's a shame."

He doesn't reply, raises his cup of coffee (black, no sugar) to his lips and drinks the too hot beverage, almost burning his tongue in the process. At least, he would feel something physical to match the burning he feels in his chest as he senses Anne's gaze on him, at work once more, trying to drill those holes into his skull, trying to pull apart his brain.

Suddenly he feels a foot, bare and small, going up his leg, slowly pulling the edge of his trousers with it. He feels a toe, tentative, getting under the thick tweed fabric and touching his skin, and the toe is cold from having gone across the house without slippers.

He doesn't have to look to know whom this foot belongs to.

 _Le loup est dans la bergerie._ There is a wolf among us, and this time it won't let go of his prey without drawing blood first.

He sets his cup down, looks up and there she is, smiling. She is always smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you with a keen eye will have noticed one anachronism in this fic: the song "Je Cherche Un Millionaire" by Mistinguett was actually released in 1937, so it would have been impossible for a young Mary Boleyn to sing it. However, it fitted too well in my narrative for me to get rid of it, so hopefully I will be forgiven!  
> Again, thank you to Jenny for her on-point suggestions, and thank you to all those who have read this story while it was being drafted, and all the compliments they gave me. I hope to be coming back with a second part...


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